


clone bone 2k19

by Skywalker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Frottage, M/M, my own clone now neither of us will be virgins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 22:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skywalker/pseuds/Skywalker
Summary: Voldemort comes out of the cauldron looking like Harry and they fuck.





	clone bone 2k19

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [mayexist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayexist/pseuds/mayexist) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Voldemort emerges from the cauldron looking exactly like Harry. (Make this as plotty or smutty as you want.)

Harry knows without being told, even though it’s _his own body_ rising from the cauldron, calling to be dressed, because his own face has never been that supremely confident, has never accepted fear and worship as its natural due. 

Harry knows, as the pale body drifts toward him as though drawn by a magnet. 

Harry knows, as his own finger linger a hair’s breadth from his cheek.

Harry knows, as his own hand cups his cheek, and blinding pain shoots from his scar to the tips of his .

_Lord Voldemort had risen again._

Harry isn’t vain, but he’s spent enough time in front of mirrors to know what his own expressions look like, and he knows that his brows rarely knit so thoughtfully and his lips rarely part so hungrily. His own features are somehow more focused, more intense than they have any right to be. Voldemort undoes just one of the ropes, freeing one of Harry’s hands, and catches it in his, _their_, own. Their hands are a mirror image, _they_ are a mirror image, down to or because of the scar on their foreheads. 

Voldemort’s fingers move from Harry’s cheeks up to his glasses with a scowl and plucks them off, and Harry realizes, absurdly, that of course Voldemort didn’t come out of that cauldron with glasses. He hopes, as Voldemort puts the old things on, that Hermione’s spell will give up the ghost and Voldemort will end up with taped glasses.

It is probably too much to hope for. 

“This is not,” Voldemort says with Harry’s voice, and it is pitched too slow and too confident and Harry might not have recognized it but for the too-familiar features accompanying it, “what I expected.” He leans in closer, flush against Harry, a hand flitting to each of their scars, and Harry feels his satisfaction at _touch-after-so-long_ that he gasps into the quiet of the graveyard, and is surprised to hear an echo from just above him, from his own lips. Voldemort’s head tilts, and he presses closer, as though entwining lanky limbs is a distant runner-up, and the thought echoes around Harry’s mind as he lifts a leg to twine them together and –

Between the same-limbs and same-mind it’s so, so hard to tell where one thought and one body ends and the other one begins, and there’s so much triumph and smug satisfaction at flesh and touch, and Harry feels himself stiffening, and feels a hard cock pressed against his –

Voldemort draws back; Harry has the satisfaction of knowing which of them is which, at this, because he is still definitely mostly tied to a gravestone, and only Voldemort has the freedom of action to step back, to pant, to dwell on the difficulty-no-opportunity of this new body. The summer air is cool after the warmth of his own flesh, and Harry tries to take the opportunity focus on the sensations that are definitely his (rough rope, rough stone, horror).

“Pathetic,” Voldemort says, brushing his robes into reasonable order, but as much as he (they) try to separate their sensations-thoughts-minds the combination of _flesh, at long last_ victory and young flesh arc between them like electricity, and Voldemort is pressed against him again, as close as though he means to coil around Harry and swallow him whole, but instead there’s a barely-there touch of his fingers over Harry’s pants that makes Harry arch upward against the bonds into his own hips. “Barely better than being spirit.” But he puts the words to lie a heartbeat later; Harry rocks without thinking, and Voldemort is as hard as he is against him, under the thin robes Wormtail provided, and when Harry grinds against him they gasp simultaneously, somewhere in between Parseltongue and English. “Idiotic,” why did that idiot (_idiot_ is a word they can agree on, odd how that happens) stock such flimsy robes anyway, “useless,” it’s nearly impossible to tell which sensations are his and which he should wall off as his own, “but the _opportunities_, Harry.”

There’s a hand tugging at Harry’s fly and at his underwear and a moment later their cocks are flush against each other, and there’s a hand apiece, probably, wrapped around for some extra stimulation as they snarl into each other. Every touch ricochets between them, and Harry really has no idea which one of them hits that point first, but Harry shouts and Voldemort bites into the crook of Harry’s neck and they sag against the gravestone to the sound of pants and a distant whimpering.

When the heat is gone, it’s easier for Harry to catalog the limbs that are properly his from the limbs that are improperly his, to wit, the limbs half-leaning, half-clinging to him, still smug and self-assured. Voldemort rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, his lips so close to Harry’s neck that he can feel as they stretch into a smile. “I’ll call my Death Eaters, of course,” he muses, one leg still between Harry’s own. “It wouldn’t do to have any misunderstandings. But after that,” He draws up, like a cobra about to strike, but only (_only_, it hurts like the Cruciatus Curse) presses a lazy kiss on Harry’s scar. “I’ll send you back with one of them, and I’ll take that Portkey back to Hogwarts, and _one of us_ is going to enjoy this very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't mind me i'm just taking a short break from shitposting about who will die in "fafner beyond"


End file.
